


The Scars tell the Tales

by Madderall



Series: Pretty, Wicked Things [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Age Difference, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Ownership, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Skyrim Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 11:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7799167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madderall/pseuds/Madderall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People come and people go, but what they have written in her skin will always remain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Maven

**Author's Note:**

> Oh. Oh, boy. This is my first attempt at filling for the Skyrim Kink Meme.
> 
> You can find the prompt and fill: [HERE](http://skyrimkinkmeme.livejournal.com/5232.html?thread=12939376#t12939376)
> 
> Updates come faster on the meme but are prone to have small problems with spelling and/or grammar. (Mainly due to the fact that I post late at night from my phone.)

Let it be said that Maven Black-Briar is nothing if not observant.  
  
The first time that she meets the Dragonborn, it is on a day not much unlike any other. She is surveying the market, just as she does every other occasion, with keen eyes and an air of superiority that lets other know her place amongst the squalor that is Riften.  
  
Maven walks, observes, and plans.  
  
She sees Haelga give a flirtatious smile to Bolli as the fisherman's wife converses with Grelka. _Perhaps both affairs will be useful should any of the four parties prove troublesome._  
  
She listens to Brynjolf’s pitch for his latest concoction. _Put the sabrecat back in your pants, eh? It's no wonder that thug-infested excuse for a Guild is going downhill with someone like that as second-in-command._  
  
She avoids the beggars and their grubby, clawing hands in favor of glancing towards the city gate where Maul has once again set up post. She can just make out the Nord’s voice, somewhere between annoyed and angered. It only takes a moment for Maven to see why.  
  
Upon first glance, the traveler seems to be not much at all worth the Black-Briar’s time or attention. Short, small, to say the least, almost dwarfed in comparison to Maul’s imposing stature. A weathered mage’s hood coupled with ill-fitted ( _and most likely ill-gotten_ ) scaled armor, with a bow on her back that glimmers of malachite and heavy enchantments.  
  
_Perhaps the girl will be of no trouble,_ Maven muses with a glance towards Mjoll and the lioness's not-quite-lover. _If not, there are always methods of keeping the unruly in line._  
  
Her interest piques when the girl approaches Brynjolf, passing by the Maven on the way. “Pardon me, ma’am.” The girl’s voice is soft, melodious, peppered with a slight accent that rings of the Imperial City, and her head is kept respectively down beneath her hood.  
  
_How interesting…_  
  
Maven watches from afar as the girl follows along with Brynjolf's scheme. She makes quick work of Madesi’s locks, hunkered down on her dirty knees and working with nimble fingers, all the while the red-haired Nord calls for the attention of the market. When the stall is closed up as it was, save a few items, Maven catches the look shared between the thief and the interloper.  
  
There seems to be some talent to the little newcomer, if her following ploy with Brand-Shei is anything to go by. The stumble seems to be truly on accident, sending both the girl and the Dunmer to the ground. Even from the distance, Maven can hear the rushed and almost embarrassed apologies. She watches the hood fall from the girl's head, revealing unkempt woodsy hair and the curve of pointed ears. The girl, for all that her ears show, is neither completely mer or man, with bright blue eyes and a smile that alludes to the finery of her bones.  
  
“Seems like Brynjolf's got some new meat,” Maul comments, and Maven doesn't miss the note of hunger in her bodyguard’s eyes.  
  
She makes a note of the look for later, before turning back to watch as the guards haul Brand-Shei away and the girl fix her dirty hood. “It would seem so, Maul… let's hope this one has some mettle to her.”

 

* * *

 

When the Guild’s retribution arrives, it comes with the silent steps of a thief, the blade of an assassin, and the insatiable fury of Dragonfire.  
  
News of Goldenglow spreads through Riften on the trails of smoke and the scent of ash and bone. The entirety of the town clings tightly to their coin purses and checks their locks twice and thrice, for the message that has wrung through the streets is loud and clear.  
  
_The Thieves Guild is not to be trifled with._  
  
Bodies of mercenaries line the land of Goldenglow Estate. Three hives stand burnt without hope of recovery for the honey farm’s lost profits. Aringoth refuses to see anyone, claiming to fear for his life; the guards whisper that the elf’s face has been carved into something worthy of Namira.  
  
The streets reek of fear and paranoia. Three businesses hit in one day, leaving owners and patrons alike in a perpetual state of unease. Keerava and Talen-Jei look over their shoulders with narrowed scaley eyes. Haelga walks with her pretty face splotched in the shades of deathbells. Bersi has begun looking to move to another hold, or so the rumor mill says.  
  
Now, when Maven walks through the marketplace, townsfolk and guards both give her a wide berth. There are whispers, because there have always been whispers, but now not even Mjoll dares to approach the Black-Briar matriarch. All the same, she knows what her power brings, and so should the rest of this insipid, little town.


	2. Mercer

The recruit is too nice for her own good.  
  
She does not look like a thief. _Then again, some of the best ones never do_. When Brynjolf first brought the girl in, Mercer decided then and there that his second-in-command thinks more with his manhood than he ever does with his mind.   
  
The girls seemed so uneasy that it was almost comical. Wide eyes darted from thief to thief, peony mouth set in a grim line. With her hood up, Mercer could just make out wisps of brown hair and a scar marring the skin of her throat. Young and not entirely unattractive. _If only Brynjolf had as good of taste in thieves as he did bedmates._  
  
Well, perhaps not bedmates, or in the very least not yet, if the girl’s initial skittishness is any indication. The tiny thing looks like she belongs running along under Maramal’s guidance, not picking pockets. He's really going to have to talk to Brynjolf about leaving the acolytes of Mara alone. _Because the last thing they need now is some priestess-in-training screaming defilement to the Jarl._  
  
She listens well enough, silent throughout his conversation with Brynjolf until she is addressed, and even then, her reply is a soft, “Yes, sir, I understand.”  
  
Mercer gives the girl a week before they find her body floating in the lake.


	3. Elise

The Ragged Flagon is absolutely thrumming with energy by the time she returns from Goldenglow. The scent of cooked meat, freshly baked bread, and fermented honey fills the damp air. Friendly conversation echoes off of the stone walls, warm and inviting.  
  
She did not expect to be greeted with a celebration, but she supposes that there are worse circumstances under which to come back. Considering her current state, she was hoping on her way back for a warm bath and a change of clothes – perhaps a bath, if she were able to get on Vekel's good side for the water. Her leathers are starting to stick to her skin, and undoubtedly she smells like Lake Honrich.  
  
Still, the smell and the sound call to her like a long-lost friend, and she cannot help but smile when she steps into the tavern. But first, business. Brynjolf stops her just as she rounds the corner towards the cistern.  
  
“Welcome back, lass! Rumor has it that Goldenglow got hit.” The Nord is all smiles, gazing down at the young footpad with bright eyes. “Tell me, do you have the contents of the safe?”  
  
 _Lass_. She hated that word. Since she was old enough to really understand the importance of names, all she had been called was _girl_ or _lass_. Everyone from the soldiers and the guards to the farmers and the beggars, all she was ever known as was _girl_ , and that had been if she was lucky.  
  
Yet, at least that had been without the expectations associated with being called _Dragonborn_. No one expected or wanted a simple girl to find their lost things, defeat hordes of bandits, or slay dragons.  
  
“I have it all here,” she replied, glancing up with a practiced smile as she patted the pouch on her hip. “I was just going to run this in to Guildmaster Frey.”  
  
Then, almost as an afterthought from her tired mind and restless bones, “Elise. Elle. My name is Elise, but I often go by Elle, and if you could call me by my name, I would appreciate it. Please.”  
  
The Daymaster stills, as if stunned by the request. For a moment, that flirtatious smile falters, and the flicker in those green eyes serves as a brief reminder that the thief is much more dangerous than his silver tongue makes him seem. “Aye, aye… I must say, you're terribly polite for a thief, _Elle_.”  
  
Her smile is just short of bitter, but her words have a gentle firmness to them. “Thank you. I learned a long time ago that honey works best when catching flies.” With a duck of her head, she side-steps her superior. “If you will excuse me, sir, I'm sure Guildmaster Frey is expecting me.”  
  
“Of course, of course. Make sure to come back and have a drink on me. Everyone's wanting to hear how your job went.”  
  
And so, with a nod and a smile that leaves and quickly as it comes, Elle makes her way into the cistern, uncomfortably aware of the eyes on her back.

 

\---

 

Out of all of the people that Elle has met during her time in Skyrim, Mercer Frey is perhaps the most dangerous of them. The man walks like a sabrecat, with a sense of quiet ruthlessness and roaring dominance. His gaze cuts like a dagger, and his voice rings loud throughout the cistern. Anyone who sets foot near knows that the Guild is his domain, and there he is king.  
  
She has traded blow for blow with bandits and monsters. She has been ankle-deep in gore and viscera in the dens of necromancers. She has stood before the throne of Jarls and under the gaze of Daedric Princes. Yet, there has not been a man, mer, or beast that makes her hair stand on end and skin prickle quite like the Guildmaster does.  
  
Her fingers twitch over the pouch as she walks, her eyes trained on where the Breton thief stands behind his desk. Almost as if sensing her gaze, Mercer glances up from the records, favoring to watch her approach. Elle is the first to break the stare, instead focusing on the soft glimmer of the man's sword. Regardless, she continues her stride, her back and shoulders set in a way that she hopes make her look at least a tad bit more confident than she feels.  
  
He speaks just as she opens her mouth, and she curses the moths in her gut that decide to make themselves known. “This had better be important, girl, I'm quite busy.”  
  
Her mouth clamps shut, and she takes a breath before replying. “I finished the Goldenglow job, sir. It seems that Aringoth has sold the estate.”  
  
She sets down what she had taken from the safe, burlap sack and folded paper neatly beside the Guildmaster’s book. Mercer does not turn his gaze from her, and Elle swears that the man is looking directly through her. “Here is the bill of sale and what gold was in the safe.”  
  
“And what of Aringoth? Your orders were to not kill the elf.”  
  
 _Oh, this isn't going to end well._  
  
“He isn't _dead_ , Guildmaster,” she argues. Distantly, she feels the dragon’s rumble at the memory of the screaming, bleeding Altmer. “I… I simply made sure he would no longer be a nuisance to the Guild or Maven Black-Briar.”  
  
“And you thought you would do that by _butchering him_?”  
  
 _Sweet lady Mara, have mercy on my soul._  
  
Elle swallows, trying to find her voice amidst her heavy tongue and warm skin. “He will serve as an example, sir.”  
  
“An _example_ , hm?” Mercer stands straight, observing the recruit with a critical eye. Despite the presence of the desk between them, she nearly gives in to the urge to step back. “I will say this once and only once, girl, so listen well. The next time you decide to be _creative_ with your targets, I will be making an _example_ out of _you_. Are we clear?”  
  
When Elle opens her mouth – whether to apologize, argue, or agree, she is not yet sure – she quickly finds herself silenced. “ _Are we clear, little girl_?”  
  
Silently, hurriedly, the Dragonborn nods, heart in her throat and dozens of souls snarling in protest. With her assent, the Breton’s stance relaxes, if only minutely. “Good girl. Despite your blunder, I've decided you still deserve a reward for your work. Go, Brynjolf's probably choking on your praises already.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
She walks as if there is an imp nipping at her heels, just missing the Guildmaster's ebony-edged smile and barely concealed look of hunger at her retreating form.


	4. Elise

Elle and alcohol do not mix. This is a simple fact, tested over the course of numerous occasions that all ended horribly. She is small; she can admit that she is just not made to be able to hold her liquor.  
  
Normally, she would politely decline an offered drink. ( _Sam Guevenne had been more than enough of a lesson about accepting drinks from strangers._ ) But, tonight, the members of the Thieves Guild drink to celebrate her success. It would be rude not to accept, would it not? Wasn’t it a Nordic custom or something?  
  
 _Most likely, because not many of Skyrim’s customs make sense, anyway._  
  
The first tankard comes courtesy of Brynjolf, and the musky sweetness of Black-Briar mead is much better than Elle had first anticipated. It gives her the confidence to tell her tale. While she knows that she is certainly no bard, her guildmates enjoy the story all the same. They hang onto her words, listening with rapt attention as she recalls how she crept along the edges of the Goldenglow Estate. She tells them of how she plucked the mercenaries one by one with her bow, and three with a mixture of magic and clashing daggers when the flames from the burning hives attracted too much attention.  
  
Elle staves the fact of the magic being a dragon Shout, because no one really needs to know that. The details of what happened with Aringoth she also keeps to herself, the Guildmaster's warning still ringing in her eyes like whispers on stormy winds.  
  
The second and third drinks come courtesy of Thrynn and Cynric, respectively, accompanied by a litany of questions. So many questions.  
  
And Elle understands their curiosity for the most part. Truly, she does. She is the new recruit that everyone knows very little about. She is shiny and interesting and mysterious, and they want to figure her out. They want to see what the new, little thief is made of.  
  
 _Where are you from? What's your story? So, what brought you to Skyrim? To Riften? What got you into thieving?_  
  
Under almost all circumstances and a clear head, she would either lie or steer the conversation in a different direction. However, Elle is sadly and rather pitifully intoxicated. Her mind is hazy, fuzzy and warm, and the lines upon lines of practiced answers and pretty not-truths evade her. Her tongue fails her, and even now she knows that a reply is beyond her grasp.  
  
 _I don't know; I was mostly brought up in military camps around Cyrodiil. I don’t have a story. I came to Skyrim to find out what happened to my parents. I came to Riften to avoid my destiny. I first stole because I was scared, hungry, and alone._  
  
All of the words that she wants to say jumble in her throat, sharp and unyielding, choking her.  
  
Silently, she downs the remainder of her tankard and surveys the Flagon. Most of the others have broken off into their own conversations. In the corner, Delvin, Vex, Tonilla, and Dirge are playing a card game that Elle does not recognize.  
  
She notices that only one person is missing, and the question that comes with it slips out before she knows what she says. “Where's Mercer?”

“Mercer?” Brynjolf chuckles beside her, making the girl jump and her ears twitch. “What happened to _Guildmaster Frey_ , lass?”  
  
His breath is warm against her skin, smelling of ale and mead as it rolls over her cheeks. She returns his smile with a scowl, her brows drawn as she gazes up at the silver-tongued Nord standing far too close for her comfort. “I told you, my name is Elise, not _lass_.”  
  
Her reply is met with a laugh, low and husky, and the Daymaster leans closer, until his words rumble near her flesh. “Aye, I remember… but I wonder if you're really as sweet as you seem, or if you're just trying to work your way up by kissing up to Mercer.” His hand is a gentle weight on her thigh, fingers digging into the fabric of her trousers, too high up to be mistaken for anything but what it truly is. “The only person I answer to is Mercer. So, if you show me a bit of that sweetness, I can be _very_ good to you.”  
  
A sober Elle would have shaken off the contact and refused as firmly as she could. She would have blamed it on the drink and reminded herself that she is better than what he is making her out to be. A sober Elle would have gotten up and walked away.  
  
But Elle is most definitely not sober, and she is nowhere near walking away from this. She can feel fire rising in her chest, the dragons roaring endlessly, battering against the cage of her ribs with fang and claw. Her teeth itch and her hands tense as if on the verge of a slaughter.  
  
With a gingerness not befitting her uneasy state, she puts the empty tankard down on the table. When she reaches down and grabs Brynjolf's hand, she is sure that it is expected. Yet, the whispers on her lips and the surge of lightning that follows them is certainly a surprise. The beasts within are pleased, and the Nord jumps away with a short shout of pain.  
  
Elle gives the Daymaster a smile that has a fake sweetness and edges like elven blades. “Pardon me, I'm very tired. At least I didn't break them, aye?” She stands, not breaking gaze with her superior. “Forgive me, sir, but if you are looking for a whore, I would recommend you see Haelga. Or better yet, why don't you talk to Niruin? I heard him talking about opening up a brothel down here.”  
  
That in itself is enough to direct Brynjolf's attention to the Bosmer thief. With the new conversation started, she grabs a tankard of spiced mead and heads as quietly and as quickly as she can into the cistern.  
  
Distantly, Elle is not as surprised as she expects when she sees the Guildmaster going over ledgers still. On very un-thief-like feet, she approaches the desk, tankard in hand. Mercer does not even spare a glance up from the text in from of him.  
  
“Don't you have better things to do than disturb me?” he asks, voice gruff with the flick of his wrist and the turning of a page.   
  
“Would you be angry if I said no?” Her smile is genuine, or at least the most genuine that is has been in quite some time. Gently, she sets the tankard on the old desk, careful not to spill any of the amber liquid. “I come bearing gifts!”

Mercer does look up at that, taking in her flushed cheeks and glossy eyes with an affixed look of disinterest, before turning his attention back to his work. “If you think some mead will make me forget about Goldenglow, you're wrong.”  
  
Her sigh is soft and languorous, and soon she finds herself propped against the edge of the desk with one hip and her palm flat atop the surface.  
  
 _She may be committing some sort of sacrilege, but who cares?_  
  
“Honestly, I was hoping that the mead would help you take a break and relax, your royal grumpiness.”  
  
Elle gets a solemn look and a slightly raised brow for her trouble. She barely can contain her giggles, warmth pooling in places that it really should not be.  
  
The Guildmaster sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Unlike you, _little girl_ , some of us have work to do,” he snaps, tone a growl.  
  
She feels warm and fuzzy, and from more than just the mead. “Oh, I have work as well, you know,” Elle tells him with a conspirator’s grin. “But I'm kind of scared… dragons are absolutely terrifying. Beautiful, mind you, but terrifying. They can breathe storms of _ice_. Skyrim is cold enough without that!"  
  
“Do you always spout inane dribble when intoxicated, or is this because you are set on bothering me?” His eyes are dangerous, but she is the Dragonborn, and as such has been blessed without a set of self-preservation instincts.  
  
“I’m not leaving this desk until you have a drink. Don't worry, sir, I can be patient. I once waited thirteen hours in one spot for a shop to open.”  
  
The Guildmaster looks dubiously unimpressed, but after a moment, he sighs once more and takes a sip from the tankard. “There, now go. I’m quite busy.”  
  
Elle does not move, not at first, but she does remain silent. She watches the Breton, detailing and committing his features to memory. The set of his jaw, the curve of the scar that runs from brow to lip, the flecks of green in his steely eyes. Eyes that are staring her down, not entirely unlike those of a dragon.  
  
“Shouldn't you be somewhere drinking and fawning over my second-in-command?” Mercer snaps, only resulting in making her laugh.  
  
“Nope. I'm not a crowd-person or a fan of smooth-talking Nords,” she replies, tilting her head with a gentle smile. “Really, I prefer your company… You treat me like a person. You tell me what you want and what you think of me. Most people don't, but you do. It's why I like you.”  
  
Elle is regarded with a look that is not quite cold, but unsettling nonetheless. “ _Fine_. Since you insist on staying, at least be quiet, will you?”  
  
At first, she opens her mouth to reply, but quickly shuts it thereafter and nods her head in agreement instead.  
  
“Good girl.”   
  
And, _oh_ , if those words don't just make her toes curl.  
  
They stay like that for quite a while, Mercer looking over records and making notes, and Elle watching him quietly from her seat against the edge of the desk. The scene is rather peaceful, the cistern silent save for the flickering of pages, dripping of water from the pipes, and echoes of the ruckus from the Flagon. Every few minutes or so, the Breton will sip from his tankard and glance at his gently-swaying companion.  
  
Some time later, Elle’s state gets the better of her, and she speaks softly just as the man is taking a drink. “You know, the last time I recall drinking this much, I ended up betrothed to a hagraven.”  
  
The choked noise that comes from the Guildmaster’s throat is entirely unexpected, and she flinches at the sound. Immediately, her hands flutter over his back, patting him between the shoulder blades once, twice, thrice, before the coughing Breton brushes her off.  
  
“Go to _bed_ , Elise.” His voice leaves no room for argument, and she nods her head like a good girl.  
  
“Yes, Papa.” The words come unbidden and unnoticed by the young thief, and she turns on her heel before stumbling to the closest bed.  
  
The furs are warm and soft around her, and sleep comes like a thief in the night, but not before she hears the echoes of a throaty laugh against the stonework.


	5. Mercer

The girl seems to be the least at peace when she is asleep. Already, her braid has come undone with her tossing and turning, locks of dark hair falling over her face. Her lips part on slow breaths, flushed the same rosy shade as her cheeks.   
  
He has never seen her without a hood, and even now Mercer must admit that there is nothing entirely exceptional about the young thief. She looks like a girl he would pass by on the street without a second thought, save the value of her pockets’ contents.  
  
The Breton takes a swig of his drink, eyes training on the unconscious footpad. He appraises her, in much the same way he does with loot, accounting details and searching for imperfections that decrease value. She, however, has no that yet detracts from her worth, and Mercer finds himself watching her simply with a distinctly male curiosity — the twitch of her Elven ears in her slumber, the scrunch and scowl on her Imperial nose, the jagged scars over the slender column of her throat, the splatters of dark freckles over lightly tanned skin.  
  
 _So, the little girl who creeps in the shadows once played in the light._  
  
The girl is undoubtedly young enough to be his daughter, this callow, solicitous creature who yearns for approval and understanding. In her short, few days with the Guild she has proven herself to be a decent thief. The gambit with Aringoth had been cunning and ingenious, and were Mercer a kinder man, he would have told her so.  
  
But Mercer is not a kind man, and at the time he knew that he needed to stamp out any embers of insolence from the recruit. Yet, he had not expected the reaction his scolding had garnered from the girl: the flickers in those bright eyes, the beginnings of a flush high on her cheeks, a shy, pink tongue darting out to wet her lips as she stood before her betters. Indeed, it had been some years since had heard anyone call him “ _sir_ ” with such veneration.  
  
It would seen that Elise is just _full_ of surprises. The girl is sweet in a way unbefitting of a thief and a cut-throat. If it were not for the carnage left at Goldenglow, Mercer would doubt her ability to hold a blade, let alone use one successfully.  
  
A muffled whimper lures the Guildmaster from his musings, and he glances once more at the girl where she lay tensed, obviously in the throes of one nightmare or another. His work is done for the night, and the temptation to simply leave her to Vearmina’s influence is almost enough to make him go. Then he hears the crying, sharp and wounded sobs coming from the Guild’s newest member.  
  
The keen, choked noises beckon a part of Mercer that he has not felt in nearly twenty-five years. The part of him that once believed in the existence of _some_ good in the world. The part of him that he thought died with Gallus. The sounds make his skin itch and his gut twist, and before long, the Breton is making his way towards the bed.  
  
“Elise," he says, brusque and low and just shy of unkind. “Wake up, Elise. It's just a dream.”  
  
Her response is a whine, high in her throat and not entirely human. She murmurs, body thrashing, and half of the words are in a language Mercer does not recognize. Vaguely, he hears her breaths of dragons and fire and sorrow.  
  
She looks a sickly shade of pale, forehead glistening with sweat and face drawn into a pained glower. She looks terrified, and the Guildmaster has seen enough.  
  
He grasps her by her shoulders, shaking her with an urgency bordering on tenderness, and once again, Elise surprises him. His bones start to creak with the strength of her grip on his wrists, her expression just short of feral with bared teeth and wild gaze. Her eyes shine like septims in the dim light of the cistern, amber now where they had been azure only hours before.  
  
“Elise, it's just a dream,” Mercer repeats, shaking her again for good measure. “Remember where you are. You're safe.”  
  
She blinks once, twice, and the golden hue fades from sight. She swallows, wetting her lips and furrowing her brow as she gazes up at the Breton. “I'm sorry.” Her voice is timid, and her gaze cloudy.

“Don't be,” he mutters, prying his arms from her grasp before leaning down to grab the furs that had been done away with her writhing. He throws them over her, then straightens up. “Just get some rest. You’ll have plenty to make you sorry in the morning, no doubt.”  
  
He turns to leave but finds himself stopped by an eager hand grasping his trouser leg. “Stay, please?” comes the mousy request, and that treacherous part of his mind urges him to comply. “I don't want to be alone.”  
  
In the morning, he will personally beat Brynjolf for giving the girl alcohol. In the morning, he will lecture the entire Guild for their asinine revelry. In the morning, he will silently deny what has just transpired. But, for now, Mercer sighs and takes a seat on the edge of the bed.  
  
The smile he receives is almost worth the headache he will have should anyone find out about this. Elle holds onto his knee with shy hands, and girl scuttles closer until her cheek rests against his thigh. As if by their own accord, his fingers slip through her hair, petting her with the same care he affords to the most complicated of locks.  
  
“G’night, Papa,” she murmurs, nuzzling his leg with the content nature of a kitten.  
  
 _Papa_.   
  
Earlier, Mercer had attributed the word to a slip of the tongue with her drunken stupor. Now, he cannot help but wonder about it, as he watches the tiny thief curl against him. The path before him is wrought with shadows and gnarled edges, and following it with her would only make his time left as Guildmaster that much more interesting.  
  
 _And who is to say that you can't keep her when it's all over?_ his mind whispers, the parts filled with avarice that wants for not merely gold. The image of the girl on her knees before him, the word _papa_ on her lips flickers like candlelight, and his decision is made.  
  
True, the girl may be nothing exceptional at first glance, but Mercer can see that which makes her rare. Her earthen hair shines with golden strands between his fingers. Her flesh in warm under his touch, alighting gooseflesh as she leans unconsciously into the gesture. The glimmer in her tired eyes as she looks up at him rivals that of Chillrend.  
  
Let it be said that Mercer Frey is nothing if not an opportunist.  
  
“Good night, little girl."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I have sinned.~~


End file.
